


Fate Up Against Your Will

by autumnalbee (redherring)



Category: Crimson Peak (2015), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: American!Victor, Baronet!Sherlock, First Person, Ghosts, Gothic Romance, Holmes Brothers, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Violence, Writer!Victor, crimson peak au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5177945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redherring/pseuds/autumnalbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My heart pounded between my ears, and I felt as though the offer were a trap set to ensnare me in an admission I dared not make. “Are you certain that would be wise?” I asked instead.</p><p>Sherlock’s expression flickered. “I am certain that I wish it, regardless of whether it is wise.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw Crimson Peak for the first time last week. I think you know why this story exists. 
> 
> For the sake of surprise, I haven't tagged everything that will be happening throughout the story; however, I will say this: if it happened in the movie, it's fair game. I'm also adding my own twists and removing some things, so be prepared for that as well. 
> 
> I probably won't be able to update this for about a month due to exams, but if you'd like a resolution sooner, I subsist on comments and kudos. So, you know. Feed the starving writer and whatnot.
> 
> Period writing is not my forté, nor are Gothic fiction or depictions of violence, so please bear with me as we go, as I'm _really_ not the best person to be writing this story. But _nobody else_ would, so. Here we are.
> 
> Title is taken from "The Killing Time" by Echo and the Bunnymen.
> 
> Lastly, a note on my headcanon for Victor in this 'verse: yes, I'm basing him off Thomas Sharpe. However, the role is swapped - Victor is taking Edith's place, while Sherlock is our baronet. So, imagine a ginger-haired Thomas who wears light colors instead of black, and you've got my Victor.
> 
> That... was a lot of words. I'll shut up now. Enjoy!

When I was a child, around the age of five or six, my mother would tell me ghost stories before bed. I can remember pulling the covers up to my chin in fear, the faint candlelight making her harsh face glow unnaturally as she told me of blood-suckers who only came out at night, of men who could turn into wolves—and, of course, of ghosts. I preferred the ghost stories above the others; I was fascinated by their lives as humans, and their second lives—or lack thereof—as spirits. If I was ever given the choice, I asked for a ghost story, and my mother was always certain not to tell the same tale twice. She could make the candle flame flicker so that shadows danced on my walls, the specters in her stories coming to life and playing tricks on my eyes.  
  
After she had finished her story for the night, Mother would smile, and it was perhaps this smile that frightened me the most. The candlelight played against her mouth, making her shining teeth look bigger and sharper than I knew them to be. And then, in an instant, she would kiss my forehead, pick up the candle, and leave my room, and I would be left with the ghosts on my walls.  
  


* * *

  
My father died when I was nine, and I saw him again when I was ten.  
  
The black cholera had taken him; the coroner had only allowed Mother to see him, in order to identify the body, but she had been kept a distance away. There were no last goodbyes for me. It was true that I had been closer to my mother than my father, but my father had loved me just as much as she had, and his loss was the first I had ever experienced.  
  
Exactly one year after his funeral, I was lying in my bed, still half-awake. Mother’s story had been a nicer one tonight, about dragons and princes and castles. I did not tell her that I preferred the ones she used to tell; I knew those were finished with.  
  
The door to my room was wide open, as it reassured me to sleep where I could see the hallway. Mother’s room was down the hall and to the left, and while I did not make it a habit of retreating to her room when I was frightened, it was a small comfort to be able to see the way there.  
  
That night, however, I turned in my bed to face the hall. It looked as it always had, an eerie shade of blue due to the glass and the moonlight. I sighed and stared at it still—and then I saw a flickering from one of the windows. There were no trees near those windows, I knew, and I could not think of what could be making those movements. I sat up, taking care not to let my bed creak as I did so.  
  
A window flickered again, but this time it was one closer to my room. I pulled my blanket further up to my neck, and I turned to the window in my bedroom—it was the next one that would flicker, I was certain of it.  
  
Nothing happened. I waited and waited, and yet there was no movement from the other side of the glass. I allowed myself to relax, and the moment I did so the window shattered.  
  
A creature—for that was the only word I could find at the time to describe it—creeped into my room. It was decked entirely in black, trails of black mist falling off of its features, and it was not until I saw its face that I realized it was my father—though it was a contorted, disgusting version of him that made my skin crawl.  
  
He moved from directly next to the window to my side in an instant, and I huddled near the corner of my bed to get away from him. He reached out a long, bony hand and grabbed my shoulder so harshly I nearly fell off the bed with the force of it.  
  
“My son,” he said, though his voice sounded nothing like my father’s—it was rougher, croakier, and his mouth opened wide as he spoke. “Beware the—“  
  
I screamed, as his mouth had looked just like Mother’s during her ghost stories, except his teeth were black and grimy. In an instant, the creature was gone, and the window had repaired itself.  
  
My mother came running down the hall, and she held me and asked what was wrong. I told her I had had a nightmare, and she made me tea and sent me back to bed.  
  
The next time I saw my father, I was twenty-four.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
_Boston, 1900_  
  
“Do you have any plans for today, darling?” Mother asked, sipping at her tea. Her hand shook, as it had been wont to do over the last several months, but the tea did not spill over the rim of her cup.  
  
I nodded, setting down my packet of papers and unfolding my napkin. “I have an appointment with Mr. Park about my new manuscript.”  
  
“That’s lovely, dear.” She grinned behind her cup, now holding it with both hands. It did not shake so badly that way. “Best of luck. I expect we will be able to read you in the _Boston Review_?”  
  
“No promises yet.” I smiled, taking a sip of my own tea. I had no appetite; my stomach was filled with excitement and anticipation, but I managed to finish my toast if only for my mother’s satisfaction. I stood, kissing her cheek, then wished her well as I headed out, my manuscript under my arm and my heart light.  
  
Upon arriving at the publishing house, I took a deep breath. Before I could exhale, a familiar hand rested on my shoulder, and I turned to find Doctor Watson smirking at me.  
  
“You’re back,” I said with a smile. “But what are you doing here?”  
  
“I am indeed. I’m renting the attic for my practice; I’m just moving all my things up.”  
  
“Did you find what you needed in London?”  
  
John smiled. “I found what I needed and more. Today is the day, then?” he asked, looking at the bundle that was my manuscript. John had never been anything but kind to me, and he was one of the few who had been allowed to read over my manuscript before its completion.  
  
“It is.” I could not help but smile. “I am hoping they will take it.”  
  
“Of course they will.” John’s eyes flashed, and his hand lingered on my shoulder, but he pulled it away as though he were remembering himself. “It would be—“  
  
“… _And_ he has a _title_. He’s not too much of a gentleman, but what do you expect? They do _everything_ differently in Europe.”  
  
I would have recognized that voice anywhere. John’s sister, Harriet, along with her horde of followers had timed their entrance to the worst possible minute.  
  
“Oh, Victor, how nice to see you.” Harriet’s smile told me it was not very nice to see me at all. “We were just talking about our newest visitors. A _baronet_ came all the way from England just to see me—can you believe that?”  
  
“What’s a baronet?” one of the girls asked. Harriet puffed herself up, ready to come back with what was no doubt an educated answer.  
  
“A baronet is—“  
  
“Is a man who makes a living off the hard work of other people who work his land for him,” I interjected.  
  
Some of the girls giggled, but Harriet was clearly not pleased. “What is that under your arm, Victor? A new manuscript, perhaps? Look, girls, we have our very own George Eliot!”  
  
“Harry, stop it,” John warned.  
  
I raised an eyebrow. “If I’m being honest, I’d much rather be Oscar Wilde. He at least had wit.”  
  
The girls looked at me in confusion, and I took my cue to walk past them. John hurried after me, and we met at the next stair landing.  
  
“I’m sorry, I do have to run, but good luck, Victor. I hope a congratulatory luncheon will be in order.”  
  
“Thank you. I hope so, as well. But I’m afraid I should be going—“  
  
John smiled. “Of course. Good luck, again, though I don't think you will need it.”  
  


* * *

   
“You didn’t tell me it was a love story.”  
  
“Is that a problem?” I hadn’t considered it before; it seemed as good a topic as any to write about.  
  
Mr. Park swiveled his chair around so that he was facing me. “Not in and of itself, no. But, Mr. Trevor, you are… not a woman, and such topics are best left to those with feminine sensibilities. Women are the ones to read such trifles, and thus a woman should be the one to write them.”  
  
“Are you saying, sir,” I asked after a period, “that I am not… _feminine_ enough to write about love? That one must be a woman to do so?”  
  
“I am not saying that at all, Mr. Trevor,” he continued, though I could hardly hear a word of it above the ringing in my ears. “I am simply saying that a man’s writing should involve love as a sub-plot.”  
  
“So I should write about hunting, then? Or bull-fighting?” I had risen from my seat without realizing it. “Or the sea? Would _that_ be masculine enough for your publishing company to take on? Or shall I take on Victoria as a pen-name and pretend I am a woman?”  
  
“Mr. Trevor, please—“  
  
My voice was calmer now; it had taken every ounce of strength within me to make it so. “I will take my manuscript back now, thank you.” I held out my arm. My hand was shaking.  
  
Mr. Park stared at me for a moment, then slipped it back inside the envelope. “If you have any other work, I would be more than happy to take a look at it. You are certainly a good writer, that much is for certain.” He handed it to me.  
  
I tucked the envelope under my arm and left.  
  


* * *

  
The carriage ride home was miserable, and arriving home itself was not much better.  
  
“Too feminine! What does he know?” I grumbled, greeting our butler with a nod before walking to the sitting room.  
  
Mother was, unsurprisingly, sitting in her chair reading. She looked up at me with a bright face, but it faded as quickly as it had arrived when she saw my expression. “Oh, darling. I am sorry.”  
  
I let the packet fall on the coffee table. “My writing is too feminine.”  
  
“What? Certainly he did not—“  
  
“He did.” I sat on the edge of the sofa, my face in my hands. “I have been working on this story for—“  
  
“For over a year, yes, I know.” She sat next to me, then paused. “I had hoped this would be a congratulatory gift, but perhaps it will serve better as comfort.” She opened the draw beneath the table and withdrew a small rectangular box, then handed it to me.  
  
Inside was a new pen, with gold and marble filigrees and a gold nib. “Mother, this is lovely.” I smiled at her, cradling the pen in my hand. “Though I am afraid I can’t use it. My handwriting gives me away as being male.” I set the pen back in its box, and my mother sighed.  
  
“I will still keep it,” I said quickly, placing my hand over hers. “I am sure it writes beautifully. But for this story, I think I will try one of the typewriters at the firm.”  
  
Mother smiled at me, patting my hand. “Go write your story, Victor.”  
  


* * *

  
When my father died, I inherited not only the fortune, but also his investment firm. As such, I was obligated to spend most of my time at the office.  
  
I abhorred every moment of it.  
  
I allowed my father’s colleague, Mr. Barrett, to take his place in all but title; major decisions were to come to me, but day-to-day tasks were left to him. This gave me the freedom to do as I pleased during my time spent at the firm, and I, of course, spent most of it writing.  
  
I had commandeered one of the secretary’s typewriters and had just begun typing up the third page of my manuscript when the front door opened and shut quietly. The usual murmurs of conversation were oddly quiet, but it was not my job to greet guests.  
  
“My name is Mycroft Holmes, and this is my brother, Sherlock. We have an appointment with Mr. Barrett.”  
  
I jumped. The voice was English, and it had come from directly above me. I looked up from where I was typing, my glasses slipping down my nose somewhat. The man who had presumably spoken was tall, with chestnut-brown hair and a smile that would make milk curdle. The other man was clearly younger, but both were dressed entirely in black, and both of their suits were at least a decade old. I had no doubt that when their clothes were new, though, they would have cost a considerable amount of money; although they were terribly out of fashion, they wre in excellent condition.  
  
I realized but a moment too late that I had been staring—not at the elder Mr. Holmes, but at Holmes the younger. He was striking; his skin was pale as a girl’s, and his eyes were the color of newly-frozen ice over a clear pond. He caught my gaze, and I immediately made to be flipping through my paperwork as though I were a secretary.  
  
“We’re early,” Sherlock said. His voice was deeper than his brother’s, and I would have found it comical were it not so beautiful. “Our appointment is for eleven o’clock.”  
  
“Better early than late,” Mycroft sniffed.  
  
“Is this fiction?”  
  
I turned. Sherlock had picked up the stack of papers by the typewriter, the first two sheets typewritten, the rest in my almost-illegible hand.  
  
“Yes,” I said, embarrassment enveloping me. I wanted to ask him to put it down, but he seemed entirely concentrated on the words on the page.  
  
He looked up at me, an odd expression on his face. “It’s rather—“  
  
“Ah! I see you have met our president, Mr. Trevor.”  
  
Both Holmeses turned to look at me, their heads synchronously snapping in my direction.  
  
I gave them the best smile I could manage. “This is Mr. Barrett,” I said, motioning toward the burly red-faced man who was walking toward us. His shoulders were angled downward, and I could tell that he was not at all satisfied by the fact that I had greeted the Holmeses first. “You will be dealing more with him than with me.”  
  
“A pleasure, I am sure,” Mr. Barrett said, shaking Mycroft’s hand. “You must be Mycroft. And… oh, the baronet, of course.” He moved to Sherlock, shaking his hand with the slightest amount of reverence. “I cannot say we have been fortunate enough to have had visitors of such rank before.”  
  
_Baronet_. So Sherlock was the one enamored with Harriet. He did look the type—although I had never met someone of nobility before, I would have imagined them to look as he did.  
  
My surprise at learning of his rank, however, must have shown on my face, as he turned to look at me. “Will Mr. Trevor be joining us?” he asked.  
  
“I usually do, when potential new clients are involved,” I replied. This seemed to be the proper answer, because he nodded, and Mr. Barrett led them to the panel room. I hid both copies of my manuscript in one of the desk drawers along with my glasses, and then followed them, taking my usual seat on the end of the table.  
  
Mycroft did most of the speaking, which was unsurprising; his voice carried well, and he was pleasant enough to listen to. There was a small table placed in the center of the room, with a wooden box atop it. Mycroft produced a canister full of bright red soil from his bag and handed it to one of the panel members. “This is the red clay unique to the Melford Hall estate. It can create some of the strongest brick in the industry; however, due to excessive mining a few decades ago, the deposits of usable clay have been much more difficult to unearth. Until recently, we have not had the manpower to dig as deep as is necessary to reach the remaining deposits.”  
  
Mr. Barrett did look not impressed. “And what makes you think you have the manpower to mine now?”  
  
Mycroft smiled, and I briefly thought he would have made a marvelous diplomat. “My brother has invented a machine that will pull the clay from the earth—and it will only take one man to operate it. Sherlock, if you would.”  
  
Sherlock stepped forward, removing the lid from the wood box on the table. Revealed was what seemed to be a model of the strangest machine, with a looped chain set at an angle, facing downward. Sherlock flicked the metal switch at the base of the model, and the contraption jolted to life, the chain being turned like that of a bicycle.  
  
“My invention calls only for the use of coal,” Sherlock stated, his voice louder so as to be heard above the racket of the model. “It also requires one man to operate it—and only one. It digs deep and brings the clay up to ground level. There is nothing else of its kind, and your money will go toward the building of this machine.”  
  
“Turn that thing off.” Mr. Barrett stood, waving an arm about. Mycroft was the one to flip the switch, and the model whirred to a halt. “You two make a very convincing argument, and I would be very much inclined to believe that this machine might work had I not looked at your file.” He opened said file, moving it so that one of his colleagues could read the first page. “I see that you have pitched this idea in London, Edinburgh, Milan, and now here. And yet you have failed to receive funding from any of them.”  
  
“I have perfected the design since those presentations,” Sherlock barked. “The model you see before you is one created through trial after trial. It will work.”  
  
“I am not sure how you conduct business in England, sirs,” Mr. Barrett went on, closing the file with a slam, “but raising your voice at those who would give you money for your project is not customary here.”  
  
“What my brother means to say,” Mycroft stepped in, “is that, through our… other experiences, we have been able to ensure that this particular machine design will be successful. If you choose to support our endeavor, we can guarantee that—“  
  
“I don’t believe you can guarantee me anything.” Mr. Barrett walked over to Mycroft and Sherlock, taking one of each of their hands. “I worked in the construction industry for thirty years. I started at a steel mill and worked my way up to where I am now. My hands are rough with work and effort. You two men have some of the softest hands I’ve ever felt.” He released their hands as though they disgusted him. “A title is not going to buy you anything here.”  
  
Sherlock stepped forward, as though about to reply, but Mycroft held a hand out. His mouth formed a word, and though I could not hear it, it stopped Sherlock from speaking. The panel members filed out one by one, and I was one of the last to leave.  
  
“My apologies,” I told them both as I reached the door. Mycroft nodded; Sherlock did not acknowledge me.  
  


* * *

  
I arrived home later than usual that night. It was raining, and I had taken extra care to ensure that my envelope and manuscripts were not damaged by the water. My story had gotten away with me at the firm, and I had lost track of the time during my typing; I was very nearly finished with my new copy, and I was confident that I would be able to finish it the next day.  
  
Mother was dressed in one of her finest when I greeted her in the sitting room, a champagne evening gown that she favored, complete with diamonds anywhere she could find a place to put them.  
  
“Are you certain you don’t want to come to the ball tonight, darling?” she asked, pulling on her gloves. “I have been promised it will be a good time.”  
  
I shook my head. “I’m certain, thank you, Mother. You look lovely. I have no doubt you will be the star tonight.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, but patted my arm the way she did when she thought I needed comfort. “You know just what to say to flatter your mother. I knew I raised you right.”  
  
Our butler appeared, announcing the arrival of Mr. Barrett and Dr. Watson. My mother had become close to Mr. Barrett after my father’s death, and though she had no intentions of remarrying, they were thick as thieves. She kissed my cheek and I hers, and she was led to the carriage by Mr. Barrett. I counted myself fortunate that I did not have the pleasure of seeing him.  
  
John, however, had come inside to greet me. “I wanted to make certain for myself that you did not want to come to the ball,” he explained.  
  
I smiled. “Well, I am absolutely certain.”  
  
“That’s a shame. Whoever will I people-watch with now? Mr. Barrett certainly won’t be any fun on that part.” John grinned back, but I could tell he was disappointed.  
  
“Harriet seems a good companion.”  
  
“She’s the one I would have wanted to talk about,” John said, which elicited a laugh from the both of us.  
  
“You should get going,” I said. “Mr. Barrett isn’t a patient man.”  
  
“That he is not,” John agreed, and we waved as he headed back out the door.  
  
The hour was getting later still, and as I had no other plans, I decided to retire for the evening. Before doing so, however, I searched the library for a book about English nobility, and I found several that might contain the information I needed. After doing so, I made my way to my room, changing into my nightclothes and settling in for the night.  
  
Unfortunately, the first book I had pulled was about higher ranking nobility, but the second contained precisely what I needed to know: Melford Hall in Sussex. It was isolated, a good distance away from most cities, and the area was known for its deposits of red clay. The house had been in the family since the Holmes baronetcy was created in 1631, and—  
  
My door slammed shut suddenly, and I looked up from my book to glance at the windows. The door had a habit of closing if there was a strong enough gust of wind from outside, but my windows were shut tightly. I stood, setting my book aside.  
  
“Anna?” I called, hoping it was just the maid, but she did not answer me. I opened the door to find nothing in the hall, and so I made to close the door again when the door would not close. It were as though something were blocking it, but there was nothing there that I could see. I tried again, and again, and still it would not close. I put all my weight against the door, pushing with so much force that I thought it might break, and only then did it close, finally—but I very well could have sworn that I heard a pained sound, as though I had closed it on a person’s foot.  
  
Satisfied that it was finished with, I made to go back to my bed, but I heard the unmistakable creaking of the door opening again behind me. I turned around, but nothing was there, though the door had been opened so that it met the wall behind it.  
  
“Anna?” My voice was not as strong as I repeated her name, and immediately after the name left my lips I felt a cold wind coming from the hallway. So strong was it that I nearly stumbled backward, but in the midst of it I could see a face I did not recognize: a man’s face so pale it was almost gray, contorted in agony as his jaw became unhinged and his mouth looked large enough to swallow me whole—  
  
“Sir!”  
  
The face disappeared into mist, and standing in its place was Anna, a worried expression on her face. I had not realized that I was having difficulty breathing, but she helped me back to my bed so that I might catch my breath.  
  
“I just came up to tell you, sir,” she went on when she was satisfied I was all right. “Mr. Holmes is downstairs. He asks to speak to you.”  
  
“Did you not tell him I have retired for the evening?”  
  
“He would not listen. He insisted. I believe he has been waiting outside in the rain for some time.”  
  
I sighed. “Thank you, Anna.”  
  
When she had left, I pulled on my dressing gown for a modicum of decency. Why would Mycroft ask to see me at all? I was not the one who held the key to his funding; if he wanted to make an impression, he should speak to Mr. Barrett.  
  
I had outlined an entire speech in my mind to tell him just that as I walked toward the stairs, but I was taken aback when I saw that it was not Mycroft but Sherlock who had called upon me. He was dressed in finery more modern than the clothes he had been wearing previously, and his hair was less wild and had a healthy shine, though I attributed that to the rainwater.  
  
He was brilliantly handsome, and I very nearly forgot how to speak.  
  
“Mr. Trevor, I apologize for intruding tonight,” he said, and I snapped back to my senses.  
  
“Are you attending the ball?” I asked, and I realized it was a ridiculous question—of course he was; he was dressed in his finest.  
  
“I am, yes.” Sherlock looked down at himself. “It is just that I hate these sorts of events, and I try to put off my arrival until the very last minute considered acceptable.” He smiled, and I could not help but smile back.  
  
“That still does not explain why you have decided to stop by. I am pleased to see you, really, but the ball is in the opposite direction—“  
  
“I saw that you had not come out with your mother, or with that other fellow,” he said hastily. “I had hoped that you would be attending, as well.”  
  
I stared at him for a moment. “You have been waiting outside all this time? In the rain?”  
  
“I have.” He seemed almost embarrassed to admit it. “I… do not think Mr. Barrett is fond of me or my brother, and I did not wish to risk running into him.”  
  
“Why have you stayed, then? Surely you could have left for the ball—“  
  
“I was hoping,” he said, looking up at me in a strange display of timidity, “that I might convince you to accompany me.”  
  
My heart pounded between my ears, and I felt as though the offer were a trap set to ensnare me in an admission I dared not make. “Are you certain that would be wise?” I asked instead.  
  
Sherlock’s expression flickered. “I am certain that I wish it, regardless of whether it is wise.”  
  
I swallowed. “Then, if you do not mind waiting, I shall change.”  
  


* * *

  
Our carriage arrived fashionably late, and we walked in side-by-side just as the song was finished. If there was one thing aristocratic Boston could do, it could throw a ball. Candelabras were positioned perfectly to complement the gold and crystal chandeliers above us, and the music before we had entered was just as fine as any I had ever heard.  
  
I could feel every pair of eyes on us both as we made our way to the crowd. I looked at Sherlock, and he turned to look back at me just as John walked over to us. 

"Victor, you decided to come," he said, his eyes flitting over to Sherlock.

"I did." I motioned to Sherlock. "John, this Sir Sherlock Holmes, Sir Sherlock, this is Dr. John Watson."

"A pleasure to meet you," Sherlock said, though I could sense reluctance on his part.

"Likewise." John eyed him up. "You must be the one my sister has been talking about. Victor explained to me the other day what the title baronet means."

"Did he?" Sherlock turned to me with a curious look on his face, but at that moment his attention moved elsewhere, and he excused himself and walked toward the center of the room.

I excused myself and followed him, albeit more slowly, and kept to the side. Mycroft had been the one playing piano, and though he had stood before, he took his seat at the piano bench once again.  
  
“Everyone!” The hostess called. “Sir Sherlock has offered to show us the waltz—European style!” She smiled, and I could see Harriet preening out of the corner of my eye.  
  
Sherlock moved to stand in the center of the dance floor, and he plucked a candle from one of the candelabras nearby. “The waltz itself is not difficult—it would only take someone with two left feet, like my brother, to ruin it.” A few chuckles rang out, and Mycroft turned to glare at Sherlock, though Sherlock did not appear to have seen. “However, it is said that the true test of a good dancer is the ability to keep a candle flame alight while dancing. Of course, that requires the perfect partner.”  
  
Harriet was beaming, and it took all the effort I had not to roll my eyes.  
  
“A candle is far too easy to keep alight while dancing with a woman—I mean no ill to the ladies in the room, but you are easily led, and grace comes naturally to you. It is much more difficult for a man to dance with another man, and to alternate the leading dancer.”  
  
There were hushed murmurs from around me, and Harriet looked as though she were sucking on a lemon drop. Mycroft’s eyebrows raised a fraction, though he said nothing.  
  
Sherlock let his words sink in, and then immediately walked over to me, offering his hand. “Will you let me have this dance?”  
  
I could hardly hear his words over the gasp that arose. I felt a lump in my throat, and it took me a moment to reply. “I believe Harriet would be delighted to dance with you.”  
  
“I am certain that she would, but I have asked you.” Sherlock offered his hand again, and he looked at me with such an intense gaze that I found my eyes could not leave his. I gave him my hand, and he pulled us onto the dance floor, his hands falling into position as though it were natural. It took me an extra moment to do so; we were both positioned to lead, and it felt incredibly strange.  
  
The music started again, and Sherlock nodded at me; he would lead to start. As we began to dance, I whispered, more to myself than to him, “What are we doing?”  
  
The corners of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up into a smile. “I find that, when faced with something uncomfortable, closing my eyes is the best way to deal with it.”  
  
“I don’t want to close my eyes,” I replied. His smile grew wider.  
  
We danced across the floor, the both of us taking turns at leading. Sherlock transitioned from leading to being led so well that the change for me felt just as easy. The positioning became much less uncomfortable for me the longer we danced, and I found myself wishing I could continue dancing with him for the rest of the night. But the music reached its end, and we separated, both of us holding the candle. I had almost entirely forgotten about it until that moment. It was still alight.  
  
I could only look at Sherlock while those around us clapped and cheered. I blew out the candle myself with a huff, and we grinned at each other until the noise around us had long died away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melford Hall is actually an ancestral baronetcy seat in Sussex. It's under the care of the National Trust, and you can go and see it for a fee. I've taken artistic liberties with the facts; it's actually situated in a village, and I didn't bother looking up when the baronetcy was established.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This happened sooner than expected. It just wanted to be written before all my essays apparently. My original statement still stands; I _do_ have essays and exams (and a mini-holiday!) coming up, so those will take priority. 
> 
> We're earning that explicit rating in this one, just so you know. I hadn't planned on it happening this soon, but needs must.
> 
> Enjoy!

“I’ve only read the first few pages, but I must admit I’m already unable to stop reading,” Sherlock said as we walked, flipping through the pages of my newly-typewritten manuscript. It was a sunny day, a rare one now that the city was starting to grow cold, and I was glad that we were able to make the most of it, though Sherlock was still dressed as drearily as he had when he had arrived.  
  
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I said.  
  
“But I am surprised. I don’t usually read fiction, and especially not for enjoyment, and even more especially not romance stories.” He raised an eyebrow, but I was not going to argue—it was a romance, truly, and that was what I had wanted it to be from the start.  
  
“You don’t read fiction for enjoyment? Whatever do you read it for, then?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged. “I used to read fiction as a child because Mycroft read all the time, and I wanted to be like him. Unfortunately, I went through a phase in which I hated him, and the reading stopped.”  
  
“But he is your brother,” I frowned. If I had had a sibling, I would have loved them dearly; it was unfathomable to me that Sherlock could hate someone of his own flesh and blood.  
  
“‘The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,’” Sherlock recited. “Most people get it wrong; they shorten it to ‘blood is thicker than water’ in an attempt to justify the fact that family should put each other first, when in reality they should be putting their god first and their family second.”  
  
“I… did not realize that was where the saying came from,” I said.  
  
“Most people do not know where most things come from. Did you know that ‘the proof is in the pudding’ was originally ‘the proof of the pudding is in the eating?’”  
  
“I didn’t. But it makes much more sense; I would rather not dig through my pudding to find the proof.” I smiled. "Do you have any more of those?"  
  
Sherlock grinned at that. “I’m afraid that’s all the trivia I know. Mycroft had me learn a few ‘interesting’ facts so I wouldn’t be too dull when we had to entertain, and, well, that was what I learned.”  
  
“I can’t imagine you would ever be dull,” I said, and Sherlock was quiet for a few moments, long enough for me to wonder if I had perhaps said the wrong thing.  
  
He tapped my manuscript. “I should like to finish this now, if you don’t mind.”  
  
I nodded. “Yes, of course. It’s a lovely day for reading outside.”  
  
“It is indeed.” Sherlock smiled, then made his way over to one of the trees bordering the park.  
  
As I turned around, I found Mycroft standing there, almost giving me a fright. “Hello, Mycroft,” I said, trying to hide my surprise.  
  
“Hello.” His hands were cupped, and it wasn’t until I walked closer to him that I saw he was holding a baby bird. Its feathers were still downy-soft, a light shade between gray and brown, and its left wing looked mangled. I looked up to see that the tree nearby did indeed have a birds’ nest on one of the higher branches.  
  
“Did it fall out of the nest?”  
  
“I believe so, yes.” The tiny bird was trying to chirp, but all it managed were a few hoarse sounds. “The other birds are gone, so apparently this one was not yet ready for flight.”  
  
I frowned. “So they just left it? Surely its parents will keep it in the nest and feed it until its wing heals?”  
  
“No.” Mycroft turned to look at me, his expression unchanged. “They will leave it to be eaten by whatever predator comes. This species is not known for being overly kind to their young.”  
  
“You know about birds?”  
  
“I know about everything.” Mycroft separated his hands, letting the bird fall back down onto the grass. The bird made another raspy sound as it fell, and had there been any hope for it, I would have picked it up again myself. “It will be dead by the end of the day, and I would not be surprised if something comes by to eat it tonight.”  
  
With that, Mycroft walked away. The bird was chirping out in pain, no doubt from its latest fall; it had landed on its bad wing. I crouched down beside it, and it looked at me with its tiny black eyes. I turned to watch where Mycroft had gone, but he was speaking with his brother under a tree, the both of them turned away from the rest of the group.  
  
The bird had stopped chirping, and I stood as I looked down at it once last time. Its mouth was still open, its chest still heaving, but it was silent.  
  


* * *

  
I pulled the note card out of my pocket once more before entering the hotel. The address was correct; the gilded letters on the side of the building matched the hotel name as printed on the card. But it was late, and if the clerk knew I was not a guest…  
  
He will not, I assured myself, and I tucked the note card back in my pocket. I had memorized it already.  
  
_If convenient, come to room eleven at eight o’clock tonight._  
_SH_  
  
I was not a fool; I knew what Sherlock was asking of me. This was an offer I had only had once before, from another man, and it ended as well as could be expected. I was aware of the risk it would be if we were found out. And yet, despite this, despite the thought in the back of my mind that told me I would not be suspected of a thing if I stayed home, I found myself making an excuse to my mother at twenty to eight. At the very least, I could excuse myself from him if anyone asked by saying I had mistaken his intentions, and the thought calmed me somewhat, flimsy as it was.  
  
As I entered the hotel, I walked past the desk as though I already had my room key. Room eleven was on the ground floor, at the end of the hallway—according to the wall signs—and I could hear nothing but the faint crackling of a fire behind the door, but before I could raise my hand to knock, Sherlock had opened it and ushered me in quickly.  
  
He was absolutely stunning. The firelight from behind him made his dark hair glow a brilliant red, and the small patch of his chest revealed by his robe had the slightest smattering of dark brown hair against the palest skin.  
  
There was no possible way I could use the excuse of mistaking his intentions now.  
  
“You look…” I could not find the appropriate word.  
  
Sherlock smiled as he helped me out of my jacket, hanging it up near the door. “As do you. Come, my brother is at the club and will not be returning for some time.” He motioned for me to walk further into the room. A cart was set out, with a bottle of chilled wine and a plate of breads and cheeses. The sofa and chairs had been pushed to a corner of the room, and instead, on the rug by the fire, was a small pile of large pillows, scattered about so that there were no spaces that would be uncomfortable to sit upon.  
  
“Do you like it?” he asked, as though he were afraid I would not. “I asked for all the lounge pillows they could provide. And the best wine and cheese, although I hardly think that vintage is their best—“  
  
I could not stand it any longer; I kissed him. He had done this—pillows, food, wine—for me, and now he was thinking that I would not like it? I laughed as I pulled away, and his face fell, but I kissed him again, and again.  
  
“It is wonderful, thank you,” I said, hoping he would recognize my sincerity. “I did not think…”  
  
“You thought I would only have wanted carnal pleasure from you,” he said.  
  
His bluntness took me aback. “Well, yes, I did.”  
  
“No.” Sherlock took my hand and stared at it intensely. “I… want everything from you.” He looked up at me, and for a moment his eyes looked like a child’s, terrified and unsure as they studied mine. It was so endearing that I felt the urge to comfort him, and I reached up to cup his face with my hands.  
  
“Then you shall have everything from me,” I said, and I kissed him again.  
  
Sherlock did not move his lips from mine as he walked us toward the pillows, and as I made to remove my hands from him, he pulled us both down atop them. He landed on his back, and I atop his chest, and I thought I had hurt him at first until he giggled at me. It was the sweetest sound I had ever heard, far more pleasant a melody than any bird could sing, and I found myself laughing with him until he kissed me once more.  
  
His robe was no issue; it took no effort for me to untie the ribbon around his waist. My mouth followed the line of hair across his chest and down his stomach, but before I could go much further, Sherlock’s hands were persistent about my shirt, grabbing and attempting to unbutton when there were no buttons at all.  
  
“Have you never taken off a shirt before?” I chuckled, meaning it a joke, but the fire in his gaze told me that he had not taken it as such. “I did not mean—“  
  
“I haven’t,” he said, as though it were a dare.  
  
My heart ached. I was the first, then. The only one to see him this way.  
  
I straightened, pulling my shirt up and over my head before tossing it away. My lips found his once more, and I tangled my hand in his hair—oh, how I had wanted to touch those curls—as his own hands worked at my belt.  
  
He was not quick, nor did he seem coordinated, but he had managed it nonetheless. I took us both in hand, removing my other hand from his hair to steady myself, and Sherlock groaned immediately when I touched him. I shuddered; I had never felt as though I had so much power over someone before.  
  
I moved my hips against his, and we both sighed at the sensation of it. Sherlock reached for the back of my head, crashing our lips together.  
  
It did not take long for him; he spilled over my hand within minutes, his mouth open in a wide “O” and his entire body shaking as he did so.  
  
I knew I would not be far behind. The building within my stomach was intense, and my vision grew furry as my orgasm rushed through me, my limbs becoming weak. I very nearly saw flickers of white light behind my eyes.  
  
I fell onto my back beside him on the pillows, feeling thoroughly debauched, my trousers still open.  
  
We laid there for several moments, neither of us speaking as we caught our breath. I could not tell if it had been nearly as intense for Sherlock as it had been for me, and he would not look at me. I wondered if I should leave—that was what my last partner had meant by his silence afterward—but eventually Sherlock turned his head and looked at me, and his face was so gentle. The harshness of his cheekbones appeared to have softened, and his eyes were glassy, but he looked years younger for it.  
  
“Thank you,” he said, his voice hardly above a whisper.  
  
I smiled. “Thank _you_.”  
  
Sherlock grinned, and—I cannot say how, he did it so quickly—he stood up, padding over to the cart. I tucked myself away and fastened my trousers before sitting up. “Isn’t it traditional to wine and dine someone before you ravish them?” I teased.  
  
He rolled his eyes. “I would chance to say that we are the least traditional people in a mile radius. Why should we be nontraditional in only one thing?” He filled two glasses with wine, holding them both carefully in one hand as he brought the bread and cheese plate with his other. He set the plate between us on one of the smaller pillows, then handed a glass to me.  
  
“I don’t see why it cannot be the opposite.” I shrugged, taking a sip of the wine. It was by no means the best I had ever had, but it was acceptable for hotel standards. “If we are nontraditional in who we choose to love, there is no reason we cannot be traditional in all else.”  
  
“In who we choose to love?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
I felt my cheeks grow warm. “I meant it in a general sense,” I said, though not even I believed it.  
  
“Who would want to be traditional in any sense?” Sherlock scoffed, tearing at a piece of bread.  
  
My relief that he wasn’t pushing the issue almost caused me not to answer. “I would,” I said, spreading a bit of cheese over my slice of bread. “I wouldn’t mind most of it.”  
  
“You wouldn’t mind marrying?”  
  
“If I could marry a man, yes, I would want to.”  
  
Sherlock scowled. “That will never happen,” he said.  
  
“It will happen, in time,” I said firmly.  
  
“Then when?” Sherlock raised his voice only slightly, but it was enough to make things uncomfortable. “Shall it be one hundred years from now, when we are dead and gone and it no longer matters to us?” He shook his head. “You do not know… you have not seen what they do in London to people like us.”  
  
“It is a good thing that neither of us live in London,” I said. “Your home is secluded; no one would know of your actions. And I have not indulged frequently enough to be caught.”  
  
Sherlock did not seem to like that answer, but he said nothing more.  
  
“Have you finished with my story yet?” I asked, hoping the change of subject might lighten the mood.  
  
“I have not, though I am close.” Sherlock smiled. “My brother has been dragging me to various other investment firms within the city, so I haven’t had nearly as much time to devote to it as I would like. But I have still been enjoying it so far.”  
  
“I am glad to hear it. It’s good to know someone likes it.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “I’m certain I am not the only one who will. You merely haven’t found the proper publisher yet. It will happen.”  
  
I sighed. “Let us hope so.”  
  
“Is is more of a reality than my machine,” Sherlock grumbled. “You at least have the thing in front of you, ready. I have nothing.”  
  
“I will speak to Mr. Barrett about your funding,” I said, touching his arm. “I do not know how, but I will think of some way to convince him.”  
  
“Do you think that is why I asked you here tonight? So I could persuade you to—“  
  
“No!” I was shocked he would even suggest it. “No, of course not. I just wanted you to know that I will be doing my best to help you, if you would only stay a few days longer.”  
  
“I see.” Sherlock nodded. “We leave Sunday next, which gives us almost a full week. I would… very much appreciate it if you would speak him.”  
  
“Then I will.” I smiled, and leaned across the plate to kiss him again.  
  


* * *

  
“Come in!” John called, and I opened the door to his new practice quietly. He was finishing up with his current patient, and I made to be reading the book titles on his shelf as he wrote out a prescription.  
  
“ _The Aortic Valve_ , _Hodges’ Book of the Cardiovascular System_ , _Blood as the Human Life Force_ , and… Wilkie Collins?” I smirked. “Do you fancy yourself a detective now, John?”  
  
He smiled, washing his hands in the basin nearby as his patient left. “What? I’m not allowed to read for fun on occasion?”  
  
“You are, but I wouldn’t have thought it would be sensation novels.”  
  
“Then you would have been wrong.” John dried his hands on a towel nearby, then waved me over. “Come here. There is something I want to show you.”  
  
He opened a trunk in the corner of the room, pulling out a rather large stack of books and made to deposit them on the table, and I pushed the mess to the side so that he would not be putting the books atop anything.  
  
“I purchased these in London,” he said.  
  
The first of the stack was a book by a James Moriarty, entitled _The Green Carnation_. I frowned, looking up at John.  
  
“Apparently,” he said, tapping the cover, “green carnations are symbolic of something. You should have seen the looks I received when I purchased it! I haven’t read it yet, of course, but you said you were looking for it, so…”  
  
“Thank you,” I said. “I did not think you would actually purchase it for me.”  
  
“I hadn’t planned to,” he admitted. “But I saw it in a shop, and I remembered you saying you wanted it.”  
  
“I did. I’ll reimburse you for it.”  
  
“No need. It’s a gift.”  
  
I smiled. “What are the rest of them?”  
  
“Oh, the rest are just ones I picked up for myself. I’m sure you have read them all already.”  
  
The next one in the stack was a collection of stories from _The Strand_ magazine. “Short stories, too? I would never have thought.”  
  
“I can be surprising when I wish.” John grinned, but it faltered somewhat a moment later. “May I say something, Victor? Just between the both of us?”  
  
“Of course.” I set the book down, giving him my full attention.  
  
John sighed. “I only feel I should urge you caution with Sir Sherlock. You both seem to have taken a liking to each other, and I can’t help but feel that—“  
  
“You were gone for quite a while, John,” I said, picking up _The Strand_ collection and reading each of the other book titles one by one. “I have managed on my own before, and I intend to do so now.”  
  
“Then would you at least tell me what your intentions are for… your friendship with Sir Sherlock?” John asked, leaning in a bit more closely.  
  
I glared at him. “And why do you think I would have any intentions with him?”  
  
“I don’t!” John raised his hands. “But you must admit it is strange that _he_ has the title when his elder brother does not. That alone should give you pause.”  
  
“I am sure there is a logical reason for it,” I said, placing the Moriarty book with my things.  
  
“And you can’t be interested in his invention; it’s—“  
  
“It’s a marvelous invention and has every chance of being successful.” I turned to look at him. His face was skeptical.  
  
“Victor, the only way to know that for certain would be to have someone from the firm watch over the building of the machine, and I can’t imagine Mr. Barrett letting—“  
  
The books nearly fell out of my hands, but I managed to right myself before they might have hit the table. “What was that?”  
  
John frowned, eyebrows furrowing. “I was just saying that the only way Mr. Barrett would be able to fund that contraption of his would be to ensure that it is being built correctly, and that it does indeed do what they claim it can.”  
  
My heart nearly skipped. “That… is a brilliant idea.”  
  


* * *

  
I decided to propose the idea to the Holmeses and to Mr. Barrett at my mother’s dinner party—after dinner, of course, in the smoke room. Mother was busying herself on last-minute preparations as always, and when all of our guests had arrived, I headed to her study to retrieve her.  
  
“Our guests are waiting, Mother,” I said, but then I saw Mr. Barrett in the room as well. “I did not realize that you were here, Mr. Barrett; I apologize.”  
  
He gave me a grim smile, and my mother did not look much happier. “It’s fine, my boy. We’ll be right along.”  
  
My eyes narrowed. I had no other thing to expect but that Mr. Barrett had made my mother look upset, but I had no proof, and shouting at him there would only give her more stress. I nodded, then walked back into the corridor, where I nearly ran into Sherlock.  
  
“Victor, I’m glad I found you.” Sherlock gave me a soft smile, one that would not be amiss on a woman. “I wanted to ask—“  
  
“Is that one of our… Holmes guests?”  
  
I turned to Mr. Barrett’s voice behind me, and he was standing in the doorway of the study. “If you would please gather your brother, Sir Sherlock, I would like to speak with the both of you. Victor, please entertain our guests and give them my apologies for the delay.”  
  
Sherlock looked entirely composed, though I could tell from Mr. Barrett’s tone that all was not well. I was very nearly on the verge of telling Mr. Barrett that I could not be ordered about in my mother’s home, at her own dinner party, no less, but Sherlock placed a hand on my arm and gave it a light squeeze. I nodded at him in thanks, and I left to attend to the rest of our guests.  
  
Luckily, they did not need my entertainment. Most were engaged in conversation, and after I made the announcement that it would only be a few more minutes before we could enter the dining room, I was blissfully ignored.  
  
My mother, Mr. Barrett, and Sherlock and Mycroft entered the parlor, and my mother announced we could proceed to the dining room.  
  
At the head of the table sat my mother, of course, with me to her left. Sherlock, our guest of honor, sat to her right and directly in front of me, and as much as I tried to smile at him he would not look up at me until everyone was settled.  
  
“I believe our guests from England have an announcement they would like to make?” Mother said..  
  
The was a pause, and it was Mycroft who rose to speak; he was sitting to my left, and I looked up at him. What in the world did they have to announce?  
  
Mycroft cleared his throat. “My brother and I will be taking the first train in the morning to New York, and then from there we will be returning to London.”  
  
More words were spoken, but those were the only ones I could hear. I looked at Sherlock, but he was staring at his plate intently. I felt I could not breathe, as though my tie were too tight, and the moment Mycroft sat down again I stood.  
  
“I feel ill,” I said in a weak excuse. My balance was impaired; I was not sure I was standing straight. “I think I should retire for the night.”  
  
“Oh, my darling. Go get some rest.” Mother stood as well, reaching out to kiss my cheek. I let her, but only long enough for her lips to touch my skin before I walked away. I did not look at the faces of the guests; I knew they were mocking. I knew they knew my secret.  
  
I had only just reached the stairs when I heard Sherlock from behind me.  
  
“Victor. Wait.”  
  
I turned, my anger coming forth in a way it had not since my father passed. “You’re leaving. And you didn’t bother to tell me.”  
  
“We didn’t get what we came here for, and with nothing tying us here…”  
  
“Nothing tying you here,” I repeated. The words burned me. “And I am nothing? Or am I not tying you here at all?”  
  
Sherlock swallowed, and I thought, for the shortest instant, that he might change his mind. “You are nothing,” he said, “and you are not tying me here.”  
  
My fingernails dug into the wood on the banister. I could see nothing but red, and yet, despite my anger, I could not touch him. I knew, were I to make out to punch him or wish him bodily harm by my hands, I would instead cling to him tightly, never to let him go.  
  
“I see.”  
  
He did not deserve a goodbye, and I did not give him one. I walked up the first few steps, but he grabbed my hand and stopped me.  
  
“Don’t you want to know what I think of your story?” he asked.  
  
‘ _No, I do not._ ’ I formed the words in my mind, but my lips would not complete the task. “Very well then.”  
  
Sherlock took a breath. “I cannot find the words to describe how much I despised it. The plot was trite, the language that of a five-year-old, and the romance was disgustingly inaccurate. People do not fall in a love that ridiculous and whole, and after having read it I have realized that you have never been in love at all. The relationship in the story is a fantasy given to women by romance writers, and you have attempted to copy them and failed even in that, even in copying the lowest form of literature. The mere fact that you managed to get that far with it, to have even been able to present it to a publisher, is an feat in and of itself, and it only shows what money can buy. You are a spoiled child who will never feel the embrace of another—“  
  
“Enough.”  
  
I did not know who had said it when I heard it, but there was no one there but the two of us. And yet Sherlock had stopped his tirade, and he stared at me. There was no emotion there, no love, but no hate, either.  
  
I turned and walked upstairs.  
  
“I’ll return your manuscript to you tomorrow,” he called up to me, as though he hadn’t said a word to me.  
  
“You needn’t bother with it,” I replied. “It would be beneath you.”  
  
I forced myself not to look behind me as I walked to the top of the stairs. 


End file.
